


To the Window

by GumTree



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Almost Crack, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fine Curly - We'll meet you there in an hour., Resolved Sexual Tension, Roleplay, Valentine's Day, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9714803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GumTree/pseuds/GumTree
Summary: It was something he and Brienne had never talked about, and maybe that had been the error, Jaime decided one night, close to the end of a long and lonely winter.  Gods, he missed her.  This time, Jaime was determined not to miss his chance.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not saying I can blame booze or the JB.com chat, only that I wish I could, before my senses get the better of me and I pretend this exercise in writing (and not torturing someone for an edit) never happened.

It was something he and Brienne had never talked about, and maybe that had been the error, Jaime decided one night, close to the end of a long and lonely winter.  He remembered nearly everything about that last, cursed evening.  Jaime remembered evaluating no less than four perfectly tailored suits for the event, preening himself in the mirror, and wondering how much stubble was acceptable. He remembered every inch of Brienne he’d so quietly fought for, every freckle and subtle curve under his mouth and tongue being sweeter than they looked, softer than the skittish librarian’s heart, which he had also so carefully planned to coax into his capable hands.  He remembered how her lashes fluttered as they kissed, her feverish cheeks under his palms, how her lips trembled against him.   

It had been far from their first date – that had been among the aging texts, in the aptly named restricted section – but it was the most intimate.  Several months ago, Jaime would never have imagined himself pining after a blue-eyed wench with an affinity for medieval literature.  Even two months ago, he would not have imagined her in his apartment.  The park and the outdoor theater had been pure luck, but this – the way she had looked at him, Jaime knew it was fate. 

The lobsters had been an obscene blue when they were tossed into the boiling water.  Though, on two perfectly set plates, they resembled the Dornish flag more than the waters Brienne loved so much, they still tasted better than Jaime had hoped.  Two glasses of wine with dinner had turned into four, and then countless kisses away from prying eyes.  He had been so careful, he thought, anything to take the edge of uncertainty away, the lingering doubt in her eyes that he wanted her and nothing more. 

Her shoes had been lost to gods only knew where.  Her lady’s coat was strewn across the back of his very expensive and uncomfortable couch.  Her hips wiggled pleasantly under his hands, the dark satin of her dress continually slipping from his grasp and fingers.  He nipped at her throat in both admonishment and praise for that breathless laugh, daring to play with him and daring to trust him of all people.  

“Bri – en – ne,” he half groaned in between kisses and was rewarded with a sharp nip to his bottom lip.  Concern flooded those bottomless blue eyes. 

“Oh, Jaime, I’m sorr--  Jaime, I … _Jaime_.”

“Wench,” he growled this time, practically purred in satisfaction against her mouth, and the length of her shuddered against his body as he nipped his way down her throat as he maneuvered them to the open double doors of his bedroom. He should have flung her down to the lonely king-sized bed for both their sakes.  He never should have let her go.  Instead, he’d wanted to show the gentler side of a lion, not just his claws, that he could hold his tongue before it delved deeper within her mouth to begin.  He had ached from the want of her. He caught her somewhere between surprise and amusement at the ridiculous black silky bedding.  She slapped the tapered fingers of her large hand over her mouth in an attempt to stop another snort of laughter.  She needn’t worry about mussing her lip gloss, his face was already tacky with it. 

“See what you do to me, wench?” Jaime asked, undoing the button to his jacket and tossing the article on the floor.  His tie went next.  He kicked off his shoes in a bizarre sort of mating dance that rivaled an over-eager peacock, and yet he stood proudly for the loveliest, homeliest hen to ever cross his threshold. 

And then, as Tyrion had put it, he had royally fucked up, worse than the fable of old King Aerys. 

They had been so fucking close.   _So_ close to fucking, perhaps.  To this day, Jaime didn’t know if that thought made it better or worse. 

“Why don’t you join me?” he had asked with a slow roll of his hips and lash of tongue against his own lips.  Her eyes were a dark sapphire, drinking in his every move.  Then, with all the grace of a lion, Jaime launched himself forward onto the slick, black satin sheets tucked over the bed.

 _VVVVVIIIPP!_ was the sound of his skin whisking over the taut satin as his over-eager momentum carried him straight across the surface of the bed and crashing to the hardwood floor and scant rug below. 

“Fuck!” he cried from the shock of pain.  His own cries drowned out those of Brienne’s, and each no-longer-a-date-night since, Jaime groused to think of it. 

Who knew a broken wrist could hurt so badly?  His brother, the doctor, did not count or do him any favors asking questions to the sweet, mussed maiden that worriedly smoothed the hair from Jaime’s brow when no one was around to look.  His cast was more yellow than gold, not that he had any say or special requests in the matter.  Still, he couldn’t resist…

“Almost like that golden-hand knight you like so much,” Jaime mumbled under the influence of painkillers as Brienne dutifully stayed by his side.  “Except I’m better.” 

“He’s fictional, Jaime,” Brienne said lowly, trying to soothe him as she would most of his short stint in the hospital.  He vaguely remembered holding Brienne’s hand to his cheek with a sigh and kiss the sensitive inside of her wrist as he slowly fell asleep. The more Jaime thought the debacle over, the more he resolved to call Brienne, to invite her over, not for fucking – though he certainly wouldn’t mind – but for… for… fuck, he just wanted his wench.  Wanted to talk to her for more than a few stolen moments at her job.  Wanted to kiss her deeper than he had before.  He missed her.

And so, they danced around one another until one evening he gripped his phone in an iron grip of resolve, only to have it ring.

“I… I’ve missed… _you_ ,” Brienne quietly pleaded, all on her own, and Jaime had to clasp his hand over his mouth to stop potential words of triumph.  She still liked, loved, wanted – who cared, it involved him.  She wasn’t avoiding him; she was trying to avoid him suffering further injury, which was equally stupid because it wasn’t his dick that had been injured, just his wrist, which had mended.  You didn’t need two hands to kiss a wench. Lick a wench. Fuck a wench.

_Fuck._

And so, Jaime counted himself the luckiest man in King’s Landing as he lightly rapped on the door with his fist, attached to his fully-functioning wrist and tried to contain the smile on his face. Jaime had brought a bottle of a sweeter wine instead, perfect for the Meereenese take-out she’d ordered, he’d said – perfect to hear her snort, to taste on her lips if he were able.  He thought Brienne might be psychic from the way she blushed heavily as though she were able to hear his thoughts.  He followed her into her much smaller living room, where they’d watched movies comfortably in such dim lighting conditions before.  He paused to see an arrangement of plush blankets, comforters, and pillows strewn about the floor. His jaw worked slowly as he considered the sight and carefully set the bottle of wine somewhere far out of the way, where it wouldn’t be knocked over. 

"What is this?”

“I don’t want you to… we’ve waited a long time, Jaime,” she said quietly but with such surety that Jaime wondered if she’d taken a few sips of something from the Arbor to take the edge off.  “I want it to be safe for you."

He could have laughed.  He could have kissed her, then.  He did -- a tentative touch at first for all gentlemanly appearances, then before he knew it, his hands were tangling in her hair, and she had somehow complied with him to lie in their little love nest of her own making. Jaime groaned at the feel of her warm flesh against his bare chest, her goosebumps underneath his arms as they curled about one another and he was torn between swallowing or savoring every tiny noise she made. 

“I never knew you wanted to roleplay, wench. These fancy pallets you found are a little luxurious,” he began, as they began divesting one another of all remaining clothing, “a little anachronistic, but I’m sure your handsome knight wouldn’t mind.”

“Jaime—“

“Mayhaps my lady-knight would enjoy feathers at her back, instead of the cold, rocky ground, hm?” 

“That’s not how the story of the Golden-Hand and Blue Knight goes! it’s a children’s story and you—“

“Want to taste you.”

“ _Oh, gods_.  What are you…”  Brienne trembled, bared to the heat between them, as he gently kissed at the heat between her legs, the sweet moisture still collecting between her firm thighs.  He barely resisted the urge to give a gentle press of his teeth there. He paused to adjust his hold on her, his renewed strength to pin her carefully to the ground and before him. 

“Children grow up, Brienne.  I’ll not be the first or last to write a lustful story about them.”  His strong fingers parted her carefully; he licked his lips. “Book-wench, swordswench, his— _my_ wench _._ My wench,” he repeated the name that used to fluster her so, “I’ll have you stop thinking, yet.”

At once, his tongue was on her sweetness, running in soft lines along the seam of her, working with his fingers to slowly re-open the petals before him.  Brienne whimpered, ensnared by his arms and pinned by his mouth as it worked diligently against her and Jaime willed her to give in, let him have this. He rumbled a soft growl into her sweet and pink flesh when Brienne’s left hand brushed his shoulder and her right helplessly raked through his hair.  He licked a firm stripe towards and across her clit in appreciation, and her breath hitched so prettily he did it again, and again.  He circled the tip of his tongue around the small bud, drug it across the sensitive tip, then gave slow, broad licks, dragging slick pressure over her again and again. 

Jaime closed his eyes to the delicious sounds she made, as sweet as her taste and groaned.  He gently pushed his plush lips over the bud and began to suckle, as first one finger and then two passed her pouting lower lips and into the tight heat of her – in and out in a gentle rhythm as old as time – only growing as Brienne’s cries became more pitched.  He pressed her as much as he could, holding her down to the nest of silk, feathers, and bedding, his tongue and arms pinning her, his mouth silently demanding that she come for him. She shuddered with a keening cry, his name on her tender mouth and seemingly moved to pull away, until he caught her fast.  He wasn’t anywhere near finished with her yet and patiently worked her to another climax, relishing the hold she now had in his hair. 

“How can you—how can you breathe?” she panted under his gaze, sweaty and flushed and delicious. 

Jaime simply kissed her in response, up the firm plains of her stomach, a peppering of kisses that left her wanting at the tight and rosy tips of her nipples, pebbled upward to his wanting mouth, and then her large and soft lips so eager to accept his own.  Gods, he loved kissing her, and soon it was his own hands that sank into her hair, caressed her freckled face, brushed over her ears, and urged her to him, to keep her within a world of their own making. 

“What about you?” she breathed against him, bringing her trembling hand to run down along his thigh until it reached its painfully hard target.  “I… I want you too,” she said and then, in her stubborn and wenchly way, set about having all she could, consequences be damned.

“Easy,” Jaime said, only for his voice to stutter as she gripped him more comfortably than he would have thought.  “Brienne—“

“I’ve handled a sword before, Ser,” she whispered, a look of amused determination in her eyes suddenly taking over the innocence he loved as much as every other part of her.  Before Jaime could threaten to maim the unknown and insignificant man that Brienne had held of her own volition, her thumb passed carefully over the head.  Once, twice, collecting the moisture that gathered there and hummed her pleasure against him.  One large hand, delicate but strong, pale and freckled hand came down to cradle his balls, hefting the warm weight of them as the other tilted him into position for her tongue and mouth to take control of him. 

Jaime had no idea if Brienne had done this before.  She was by no means an expert, but she tasted him with a resolve and an enthusiasm that stole all coherent thought from his mind as all available blood rushed below the waistline.  And suddenly, it was her strong hands that kept his hips pinned to the floor, best she could and laved his head again and again.  She hummed a little sound to herself and took first the tip of him inside to carefully suck, and then more as she was able. 

“Gods, Brienne… Wench, I—where did you?  Fuck,” Jaime sighed and bit his lip before he could whimper. He fisted the covers below him, not trusting his hands to tenderly brush the fly-away hairs that brushed his lady’s face.  He didn’t trust himself to last.  He tried to warn her, tried to pull away, but Brienne, stubborn and fair-minded thing she was, held onto him firmly, moved with the rocking of his hips that he had tried so desperately to avoid and worked him through the tightening of his muscles, then flush of heat and immense rush of pleasure as he roared his release and came under her tongue. 

Jaime cursed as he thought to breathe, thought to attempt to glare at Brienne but lost the foolish idea the moment her eyes, dark as sapphires, looked lovingly down on him, a small smile tugging the corner of his lips.  He knew the feel of that look, it spoke of:  _I love what I’ve done to you._   _Don’t be mad when we have the whole evening_.  Brienne’s hands, large and warm, rubbed over him in appreciation, and Jaime pulled her down into his strong arms and embrace, kissed her jawline, her throat, kissed her nipples and all that he could reach in the languid flow that followed his release.

“You make a beautiful knight,” she murmured with a smile that, by all rights, should not be so shy against his lips, but he had seen scarce fit her so well except his form wrapped about hers in pleasure.  Jaime sealed the kiss dutifully, gleefully, as deeply and thoroughly as they could manage.  Once, twice, again and again until she was sighing in his arms amongst the feathers, the silk, and the pillows. He wanted to tell her that nothing could match her.  He wanted to tell her that despite plain features, she did something to him that made her the most appealing creature to walk the busy streets, but he knew better than to give her doubt any room. 

He kissed her again, instead.  “I think you’re beginning to love me, wench.  Those beautiful eyes and lips of yours will put me to death more kindly than any sword.” Jaime chuckled at the face that she made and pulled her closer, dared to nuzzle her when she did not disagree.  “You waited for me once.  Just give me a few more minutes, and I’ll show you other things a sword can do,” he promised and thought of the evening to come, her body wrapped around his, under his, riding his.  “My wench,” he promised her with a tender kiss. 


End file.
